


heart made of glass (my mind, of stone)

by humanveil



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Podfic Available, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-19 21:19:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17009403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: Eve Polastri does not quit.





	heart made of glass (my mind, of stone)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [praecantrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/praecantrix/gifts).



Villanelle disappears, seemingly from thin air, and Eve is left lost. In more ways than one. 

She cleans herself up and books the cheapest flight to London she can find, not yet sure of what she’s going to do next but sure that there  _is_  a next: a continuation, a climax yet to come. 

Her clothes are ruined, blood stained and damp with champagne. Her suitcase is an option, but. Well. Villanelle’s wardrobe is right there, tempting her. Alluring in a strange yet simple way. She stares. Contemplates. Looks down at her bloody sweater and runs a freshly washed hand along the surface of one of Villanelle’s coats—wool, dyed a deep brown, simple yet beautiful. 

The temptation is too strong to ignore. 

-

Her seat is shoddy; cheap and cramped. Eve leans against the back, lets her head rest against the stiff material and tries to ignore the screaming child two rows over, the snoring man beside her, the loud chewer behind. Her eyes shut, her chest expanding with an exhale of air: the sound long, loud, drained. 

She is exhausted. In every sense of the word. 

She shifts, and Villanelle’s shirt rustles against her neck, the collar brushing over skin. The fabric is soft, expensive. Not unlike the clothes she’d been gifted. A scent clings to it, the smell one Eve is now familiar with: one that had tainted the air of Villanelle’s home, one she had smelt on herself, once, one that makes her think of Villanelle; of a soft bed and a gentle caress and another body, warm and close. Of death and beauty and blood and tears. 

She keeps her eyes shut. Doesn’t fight it when an image of Villanelle fills her mind, the formation easy. Familiar. She does not admit, even to herself, that the familiarity is born from frequency. 

She sees Villanelle. Sees a body beside her own, feels the memory of warmth, the phantom touch of fingers against her face: startlingly gentle, soft and tender. Like she had any right to be. She sees Villanelle: closing in, reaching out. To touch, to take, to  _consummate_. 

She sees Villanelle. Remembers the dip of the bed, the way she’d leaned in. Remembers what’d it’d felt like to have expert hands pull the clothes from her body, to be pinned against her fridge, to feel Villanelle’s breath on her skin: hot, intimate. _Dangerous_. She sees Villanelle, and there is no blood this time. No knife or gun or cry of pain. It’s only them. Only touch and taste and a tenderness laced with toxicity. 

Her breath hitches. Her eyes snap open. Her heart flutters in her chest: erratic, like it’s going to jump right out of her body. Her knuckles are white where her hands rest against the seat’s surface, her fingers digging into the material. _Painful_.

She swallows and tries to ignore the way her breath has quickened. 

-

_Come with me. Just you and me._

_-_

She does not go home. 

She wonders if there is a point, now. If Nico is even there. Wonders if showing up with blood under her nails and an assassin’s coat adorning her frame might shatter whatever forgiveness he’d managed to salvage. Wonders:  _do I want forgiveness? Did I ever?_

She thinks of going to Elena, but doesn’t. Thinks of confronting Carolyn, but doesn’t. Instead, she goes to the office and she sits in Bill’s chair and puts her head in her hands and thinks,  _how did I end up here?_

Later, she will call Nico. Later, she will leave another message and tell him she’s back in London and say  _darling_  like it might help fix things. Like it means something more than it actually does. Like it’s some sort of synonym for  _sorry_. 

For now, she stares at an empty desk and talks to a dead man. Says, _God, I wish you were here_ , and tries to ignore the reason he isn’t. As if Villanelle is a force she’s ever been able to overlook.

The fingers that run through her hair are still stained red. Remnants of blood clinging to her cuticles and beneath her fingernails: a reminder of what she did. 

She can hear Villanelle’s teasing tilt clear in her mind. 

_You need to get better at that._

-

She falls asleep sitting up and starts awake only hours later, the creak of the door drawing her from slumber. She stares, bleary eyed and groggy, as Kenny’s head peaks around the corner. Can’t help but think _: I used to be a heavy sleeper._

She’s well aware of when that changed.   

“Oh,” says Kenny, still a little awkward, even now. Eve turns to look at him properly, watches him linger: one hand on the door knob, the other moving around like he isn’t sure what to do with it. “Sorry,” he says. “Should I...”

He trails off. Furrows his forehead as he gets a better look at her. At the mismatched clothes and dishevelled appearance, the wearied lines that paint her face. He steps into the room, closes the door, says, “What happened to you?” like she has an easy explanation to give. 

Eve laughs: a quick burst of air, breathy and humourless. Loud in the small room. “Where do you want to start?”

-

_I just want to know everything._

-

“Mum wants me to clean it out,” Kenny tells her after, his gaze flicking around their little office.

He’d taken it well, but Eve supposes that isn’t surprising. Not after everything that’s happened.

“I’ll find somewhere else to work,” she tells him, and there’s a question there. A veiled proposition. She likes Kenny—and God knows she could use the help.

He seems to understand. “We’re going to keep going, then?” he asks, and there’s a look in his eye. Something new, something that wasn’t there when they’d first met. Eve knows he knows she has no intentions of stopping.

“We’re going to keep going,” she repeats, and what she means is, _I can’t stop._ Is, _there’s no other option_. Is, _I need to find her again._

It’s ridiculous, what she’s doing; this connection she has with Villanelle. Perhaps tragically predictable. But it’s also understandable, Eve thinks. She is many things, but a quitter is not one of them.

And Villanelle is not someone she can give up on.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] heart made of glass (my mind, of stone)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17973011) by [RevolutionaryJo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RevolutionaryJo/pseuds/RevolutionaryJo)




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